Gemotions

The familiar scent of Grandma's apple pie, baking in the oven, felt strange, alien. Amelia watched as her father, usually the jovial center of family gatherings, sat stiffly at the kitchen table, his face illuminated by the glow of his phone. He was reading something about Islam. He had told them at breakfast, his words delivered with a quiet intensity that was unlike him.

She normally loved the anticipation of her grandmother's arrival, but today, she didn't want the comfort of her embrace. Amelia felt like she needed to hide.

She watched her father, his brow furrowed, scrolling through a website. The kitchen, usually her sanctuary, felt unfamiliar, as if it had been invaded. She cleared the table, her movements jerky, as if her limbs weren't connected to her brain.

The world seemed to have tilted on its axis, and she was having trouble finding her balance. She considered leaving and going for a walk, but a nagging thought told her she shouldn't. Something terrible might happen while she was gone. She felt a profound dread.